


the harder we try, the harder we fall

by hawksonfire



Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Hydra Typical Torture, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Clint Barton, POV Sarah Rogers, Polyamory, Violence, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26278306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/pseuds/hawksonfire
Summary: Soulmarks, despite popular belief, are not a marker of the perfect relationship. Just like any other relationship, they take work and dedication. A soulmark simply means that there is the potential for you to be happy with that person, not that you will be. And sometimes, despite the best efforts of all involved, soulbonds don't work out the first time. Some people give up, unwilling to put in the work required.Some people, on the other hand, don't. They keep trying, keep attempting to make it work, even when everyone around them is telling them to stop, telling them it won't work, it can't work.This is the story of those people.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 82
Kudos: 158
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vexbatch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexbatch/gifts).



> WOO! Happy Hawktion! It took me a surprisingly short amount of time to come up with this idea, and it's WAY more angsty than I thought it would be. But here it is, and here it shall stay. I hope you like it.
> 
> Many thanks to Vex for bidding on me in the Hawktion, and of course thanks to the Hawktion mods for running such an amazing event. Can't wait to do it again next year!

“Tell it again, Momma!” Sarah Rogers looks down at her child, blond hair and blue eyes staring up at her. There’s a black smudge on his collarbone, only visible to her because she’s above him, looking down. 

“Alright, mo chroí,” she says, fondly ruffling his hair. “Last time, then bed.” 

“Yes, Momma,” her boy says.

“Your father’s name,” Sarah starts, “was Joseph Rogers, and I loved him very much.”

“And he loved you too, right Momma?”

Sarah tweaks her son’s nose. “Who is telling this story, mo chroí, you or me?”

“You, Momma.”

“Your father was my anam an chroí, my heart’s soul. We met across the sea, and from the very second I laid eyes on him I knew that there was no one else for me. It was almost as if he became the string tying me to this earth, and I for him.” Steve is watching her, eyes wide as he hangs onto her every word. She smiles softly at him, swallowing around the lump in her throat. “Soon enough, we were betrothed.”

“What’s that mean?” Steve asks, scrunching up his nose.

Sarah laughs. “It means we were to be married, mo chroí. To spend the rest of our lives together.”

“Well, why wouldn’t you just _say_ that?” Steve huffs petulantly.

“Next time, I will,” Sarah promises. “Now, where was I?”

“Momma!” Steve complains.

“Ah, yes,” Sarah says, nodding her head. “We were to be married. We were so happy together.” She gets lost in memories for a few moments, then gives her head a shake and resumes the story. “When we went to tell Joseph’s parents -”

“What happened to your parents?” Steve asks innocently.

Sarah runs a hand through his hair gently. “They had already passed into the afterlife by then, mo chroí.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “What about Da’s parents?”

“They were still around,” Sarah answers. “We went to tell Joseph’s parents that we were to be wed; we thought they would be happy for us.”

“Were they?”

“No, mo chroí, they were not. They ordered us to break off the engagement and to never see each other again, but Joseph and I refused. After all, we had a babe on the way.”

“That’s me!” Steve cries excitedly.

Sarah smiles. “Indeed it was. Joseph came to live with me to prepare for the birth, and we were very happy for about six months. One day, Joseph came home with a surprise. He had bought two tickets on a steamship to America for us. He wanted to start a new life—a better life—for us and our baby. So we made the journey. It was small, dark, and crowded, but we made it. By the time we arrived at Ellis Island, I was nearly ready to give birth.” She pauses for a moment, thinking back to all the emotions she was feeling at the time. Trepidation, excitement, love... 

“Keep going, Momma!” Steve says excitedly.

“We found a little apartment to live in—this one, in fact—and settled in to start our new lives. We had a month left before our babe was to arrive, and we did the best we could to prepare. Joseph worked every day, from sunup to sundown, so that we would have enough money to take care of you.” Steve presses closer to her, knowing what comes next. 

“Then what, Momma,” he says quietly.

“Then, on July 4, 1918, we had a beautiful baby boy, with his father’s blue eyes and my blonde hair.” Sarah swoops down and grabs at Steve’s tummy, tickling him and laughing along with him. 

“No more, Momma, no more!” he shrieks, trying to wiggle away. After a few moments, he manages to slide out of her grip, climbing onto her lap and burying his face in her chest. “Keep going,” he says, voice muffled.

“We had two amazing months together, us and our baby,” Sarah says quietly. “And then Joseph got sick. I don’t know if he caught it at work or if I had passed it on from someone at the hospital, but he was very sick, very fast, and within another month, he was gone.”

Steve shakes his head, burrowing further into her chest. “I miss him, Momma,” he says.

“I miss him as well, mo chroí,” Sarah says, rubbing a soothing hand down her son’s back. “When your father passed on, it was as if my heart had been torn in two, never to be whole again. That’s what happens when you lose your anam an chroí, Steve. I would not wish that upon anyone.”

“I don’t ever want to meet my anam an chroí,” Steve says stubbornly. “Not if they’re gonna go away.”

Sarah lifts Steve’s chin until he’s looking at her. “No, Steve,” she chides gently. “Meeting your father was the best thing that ever happened to me. I cherish the time we had together and although I miss him every day, I wouldn’t change a single thing about our story. After all,” she says, wiping away a few of her own stray tears, “he gave me you.”

“But I don’t want to get hurt,” Steve says solemnly.

“Oh mo chroí,” Sarah sighs, hugging her son close, “Getting hurt is a part of life. The struggle we go through, if it doesn’t break us, only makes us stronger. And you are never given anything you cannot handle, Steve.”

“But how do I know what I can handle?” Steve asks.

“You don’t,” Sarah answers. “That is not for us to know.”

“That’s dumb,” Steve pouts.

Sarah laughs. “I agree, mo chroí. Perhaps one day it will change, but until then we must make do with what we are given.” 

They sit in silence for a minute longer, and then Steve says softly, “Momma?”

“Yes, mo chroí?”

“Do I remind you of Da?”

Sarah cups her son’s face in her hand, thumb rubbing along his cheekbone. “I see him in you every day, Steve. In the way you walk, in the way you brush your hair... Having you here is like having a little piece of Joseph with me. The dead are never truly gone until they’re forgotten, mo chroí, and with you here, I am reminded every day.”

“Was he a good man, Momma?” Steve asks, holding her hand to his face.

“Always,” Sarah says. 

Steve nods, some decision made in that five-year-old mind of his. “I wanna be just like him when I grow up,” he declares. “A good man.” With that said, he kisses her on the cheek and runs out the door, feet pounding down the stairs all the way to the ground floor.

“I have no doubt of that, mo chroí,” Sarah says, looking after him. “No doubt at all.”

* * *

“Can you see it, Ma? Is it clear? What does it say?” Steve’s asking questions so quickly Sarah can barely keep up, and she’s having enough trouble seeing his mark as it is because he’s squirming, unable to keep still.

“Steven Grant, will you _hold still_!” Sarah says, smothering a grin.

Steve freezes in place, finally allowing her to get a good look at his mark. “What’s it say, Ma?”

“What do _they_ say, mo chroí,” Sarah corrects. “You have two marks.”

“Really?” Steve asks, wide-eyed. “What do they say?”

“Only one of them is clear enough to see,” Sarah says. “That likely means your other anam an chroí isn’t born yet.”

“Ma, please,” Steve whines, still pulling his shirt down so she can see his collarbones. “What does it _say_?”

Sarah smiles at him and runs a thumb over the delicately printed letters. “JBB,” she says. “It says JBB.”

* * *

It’s a Wednesday like any other, rainy and bleak, and Sarah’s just gotten home from her shift at the hospital. She takes a moment to lean her forehead against the wall, gathering her strength to put on a smile for her son. It’s then that she hears laughter coming from her kitchen, then a voice that doesn’t belong to her Steve says something, too low for her to hear. Steve’s laughter rings out, drawing some of the tension from Sarah’s bones as she walks into the kitchen. “Steven Grant, what have I said about having people here when I’m not home?”

Steve leaps up from his chair and lets her sit down. “Ma, this is Bucky,” he says gesturing at the boy he’s brought home. 

“Ma’am,” Bucky says, smiling at her charmingly. He stands and reaches out to shake her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you. Stevie here won’t stop talking about how great his Ma is, so when he invited me over to meet you, I had to say yes. I hope it’s no bother.”

Sarah smiles despite herself, amused at his charm. “No bother at all, Bucky. Do you have a last name?”

“Barnes,” Steve bursts in, practically bouncing with excitement. “Ma, his name is James Buchanan Barnes! JBB!” Bucky smiles sheepishly at her, a blush rising on his cheeks at his excitement.

Sarah’s voice comes out strong despite her pounding heart. “Are you sure, Steve? Many people have those initials.”

“I’m sure, Ma,” Steve says seriously. “He’s got my initials on him so we match. And he’s got a second anam an chroí mark too!” He turns to Bucky, and obligingly, Bucky pulls his shirt down enough that Sarah can see the delicately scrawled SGR across his collarbone.

“I’m very happy for the both of you,” Sarah says honestly. “I need you to listen to me very closely now, understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boys say in unison.

“Steve, you know I do not care if your anam an chroí is a boy or a girl, either of them,” she says, watching Steve nod. “Unfortunately, the world we live in doesn’t share my view. You must be extremely careful about who you share those marks with, do you understand?”

“Is there something wrong with us?” Bucky asks, and Sarah can’t help but draw them both into a hug. 

“There is absolutely nothing wrong with either of you,” she says vehemently. “You are both perfect little boys. And there’s nothing wrong with having a boy for a soulmate, or for a girl to have another girl as her soulmate. God does not make mistakes, mo chroí, no matter what the Church says.”

“We won’t tell anyone, Mrs. Rogers,” Bucky swears. “Promise.”

“You can call me Ma, Bucky,” Sarah says kindly. “You’re part of our little family now.” She gives them both another squeeze, then releases them. “Have either of you eaten?” At the shake of their heads, Sarah sighs. “What am I going to do with you two? Go on, go play while I make dinner.”

The two boys run out the door, laughter echoing behind them, and Sarah puts down the cutting board. Her knuckles go white as she grips the counter, and she already knows deep in her heart, that she may as well have two sons now. Both of which she would—and will—protect with everything she has.

* * *

On October 15, 1936, Sarah Rogers dies of tuberculosis.

* * *

“C’mon, Stevie, tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Bucky says, bumping against Steve’s shoulder. The smaller man is tracing his second soulmark, still unreadable even after all this time.

“What if we never meet them, Buck? It’s been so long and they’re still not even born yet.” Steve sighs, letting his hand fall to his lap.

“Ah, don’t think like that, Stevie!” Bucky says, slinging an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Of course we’ll meet them! Who else would I compete with for your attention, huh?”

Steve punches him, smirking. “Jerk.”

“Punk,” Bucky retorts.

* * *

In January of 1945, Bucky Barnes falls from a train and is presumed Killed In Action.

One month later, Steve Rogers—also known as Captain America—flies the _Valkyrie_ into the Arctic, sacrificing his own life to save over seven million others. His final act was to mourn for the soulmate he had never met, for now they never would.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for some moderate gore/body horror, typical Winter Soldier type brainwashing.

Bucky wakes up on an operating table. He’s pretty sure that’s not supposed to happen, but any rational thought is quickly drowned out by the supreme amount of pain he’s in. He twitches, the movement sending a fresh wave of pain through his left side.

“Ah, Sergeant Barnes,” an accented voice says. “You’re awake. Good, we can get started.” A face comes into his limited field of vision, and something pings in Bucky’s brain. 

“Zola,” he croaks. 

Zola grins at him, crooked teeth and smug little face exactly how Bucky remembers. “You remember me!” He says excitedly. “Then this will be much more fun. Lift his head.” Someone grabs Bucky’s head and lifts it, none too gently, and Bucky has to bite back a scream, refusing to give Zola the satisfaction. “Now, unfortunately, Sergeant Barnes, you suffered a rather traumatic injury in your fall.” Whoever’s holding Bucky’s head directs his gaze towards his left arm—or rather, what’s left of it.

The sight of his mangled limb makes Bucky’s gorge rise, and he only doesn’t vomit because he knows that’s exactly what Zola wants. The stump ends just above his elbow, the flesh ragged and torn, and there’s a piece of shattered bone sticking out of the end, jagged and bloody. Zola’s still talking, but all that’s running through Bucky’s mind is that he can still  _ feel _ it, even though it’s very clearly not there anymore. 

He chokes out a mangled sob and Zola stops, an annoyed look on his squashed face. “I can’t have him distracting me during the surgery,” he says impatiently. “Knock him out.” The person holding Bucky’s head drops him to the table with a  _ clang _ that rattles inside Bucky’s skull. 

“I suppose we’ll have to remove the soulmark,” Zola says, and he almost sounds sad about it. “Shame.” He waves a hand absently. “The good Captain is dead anyway, so I suppose it doesn’t matter in the end.” The words take a second to process in Bucky’s pain ravaged mind, and then his brain goes quiet. So quiet he can hear each individual heartbeat in his ears, the sound seeming... muted, somehow. And then Bucky screams. A sound of pure anguish tears its way out of his broken, bloody body, and he’s barely able to hear Zola yelling for someone to shut him up before someone’s fist snaps his head to the side and everything goes black.

* * *

He wakes up in a cell. His head is pounding and his shoulder is on fire and his throat feels like someone made him drink lava. “Steve,” he rasps painfully, and then his eyes snap wide open and he jerks upright. “No,” he whispers brokenly. “Please, no. Not my Stevie. Please!”

A horrible keening noise sounds in his cell and it takes a minute for Bucky to realize that it’s him making that noise, that it’s coming out of his throat. “No, no, no,” he mumbles to himself, shaking his head and refusing to believe it. “He’s not dead, he can’t be dead.

“Oh, but he  _ is _ , Sergeant Barnes,” Zola’s voice says, coming out of the walls. “I can prove it to you, if you’d like.”

Bucky bares his teeth at the air. “Like I’d believe anything you tell me, you Nazi piece of scum.”

“You will, Sergeant Barnes,” Zola says. “You will.” Something slides open near the floor of his cell and a thick gray gas hisses in. Bucky immediately covers his mouth and nose with his arm, already coughing. His vision goes fuzzy and his arm falls slack to his side, and the last thing he sees before passing out is his cell door opening to reveal a silhouette Bucky doesn’t recognize.

* * *

They shove him out of his cell, hands clamped so tightly on his wrist he can hardly feel his fingers, but he doesn’t care. Why should he? He’s been here as long as he can remember, and his memories are measured in bruises and spikes of pain and stabs of loss for something he never had.

They shove him into a metal chair and he sits. Rubber gets shoved into his mouth and he bites down, and then everything goes white and his world is pain. Sharp, blinding pain, unlike the dull, throbbing pain that accompanies him everywhere else. The pain stops and they speak words that slide off his brain like water, and when they’re finished he speaks in a language he doesn’t understand, and yet knows like it’s his own. 

They shove him back into a cell and the bones in his wrist ache like they were being squeezed, but they were not touched. The cell door slams shut behind him and he feels adrift, lost in a world he does not know. Something glints in the faint light shining through the bars in the door and he picks it up. 

It’s a small shard of glass and as he turns it over in his hands, something catches his eye. There are no mirrors in the cell, but when he brings the shard closer, the fuzzy shape within takes shape. He stops at his chest, eyes glued to the small ‘S’ just clear of the barely healed-over wounds on his shoulder.

It means something, he can feel it deep in his bones. He would die for what it means, he would kill for what it means. And he knows, somehow, instinctively,  _ not _ to tell them that it means something.

* * *

Eventually, it stops meaning something.

* * *

Feeling in the fingers comes back first. The first thing the brain comprehends is a tingling sensation in the right hand. The left hand is cold. The left hand is always cold, and the cold always spreads to the rest of the body until it’s bone deep. After the fingers, it’s the toes and the ears and the nose. They’re all tingling until they go numb, and by then preparation has begun for the Chair. The rubber bit goes into the mouth, the wrists, chest and head get strapped down, and a deep breath is sucked in to prepare.

No amount of preparation is enough. It hurts, enough that a scream sounds, albeit muffled. The pain wipes the mind clean, ready for instructions.

“Я готов отвечить.”

* * *

The Asset has an ‘S’ on his left collarbone. They tell him it stands for Soldat, tell him he should be proud to wear it, tell him that if any other marks appear, he should cut them out, for theirs is the only mark he needs.

It’s only during a mission in 1965 in America that, for the first time, he thinks differently.

Everywhere is red, white and blue, and each colour is like a million knives to the brain. He drops to his knees, head in his hands and squeezes his eyes shut. If a handler was here, he would be beaten for showing any weakness, but there’s no handler so he allows himself a rare moment of weakness.

His eyes jerk open and his hand flies to his collarbone, fingers resting over the ‘S’.

“Steve.” He shakes his head to clear it, then stands and continues moving through the crowd. A malfunction that large must be reported to the Handler in charge. Once the mission is complete, he does exactly that. 

He won’t remember the beating he gets, nor the way they make him crawl to the Chair after breaking both his legs, but he never has another malfunction like that again.

* * *

It’s 1980 the first time that the Asset’s second mark is noticed. It’s a technician that first notices it while preparing him for a wipe. “What the hell is that?” The technician asks, rolling his chair closer to the Asset and squinting at his chest. 

The Asset remains still, staring straight ahead.

“What the hell is what, Carl,” another technician says, annoyed.

“That! He’s got another damn soulmark!” Carl points at the Asset’s collarbone. The Asset can feel the heat coming off of Carl’s finger, and for the first time in a long time, he has to resist the urge to shove the offending finger away from him. 

“He does not have another soulmark, you idiot, when would he - holy shit.”

“Told you!” Carl and the other technician devolve into squabbling, their voices irritating the Asset much like a flock of pigeons annoys a statue.

“What the hell are you two squawking about?” Sir walks into the room, eyes narrowed, and the Asset wipes every nonexistent trace of emotion off of his face. The two technicians trip over themselves trying to explain, and eventually Sir just holds up a hand and they fall silent. “You,” Sir says, pointing to Carl. “Explain.”

“There’s a second soulmark, Sir,” Carl says. “Wasn’t there when he was put under in ‘73, but we noticed it when we were prepping him for a wipe. It’s just on his collarbone -”

“I can see it, you idiot,” Sir says, annoyed. He looks at the mark, studying it, then turns and moves toward a small tray with medical equipment on it. 

“Sir?” Carl asks tentatively. “What are you doing?”

“The Asset has standing orders to cut out any marks that appear without clearance,” Sir says, lifting a scalpel and looking it over. “I am simply providing him with the tools.” Sir walks back towards the Asset and holds out the scalpel, handle first. “You know what to do.”

The Asset takes it.

* * *

“The year is 1991. Your target is Howard Stark. Collateral damage acceptable.”

“Я готов отвечить.”

* * *

The Asset is unaware of things that happen outside the cryo chamber when he is inside it. It is part of the process of being frozen—all thoughts and processing freeze as well. He becomes aware of his surroundings when he is approximately half-thawed, and as a result, spends the next two hours repressing his body’s shivers and cataloguing the information unwittingly provided to him by those in charge of defrosting him.

“Looks like the Mayans were right,” the technician at the Asset’s right knee says. “The world is going to end in 2012.” He snorts and elbows the technician at the Asset’s waist.

“Not if Cap -” The technician at the waist is cut off when the technician at the Asset’s neck jabs her in the side with a pen.

“Not in front of the Asset,” he hisses. “You  _ know _ we’re not supposed to talk about him.”

“What does he know?” The female technician scoffs. “He’s brain-dead from all the electricity over the years, he can’t understand us.” She pokes at the Asset’s thigh roughly, snorting when he doesn’t so much as twitch. “See? Nothing.”

Something flashes in the corner of the Asset’s eye and he very carefully moves his gaze over to the television in the corner. The technicians continue speaking in the background, but the Asset ignores them and focuses on the screen. It’s a newscast out of New York, sound muted, but the images on the screen more than make up for the lack of sound. 

There’s some sort of invasion happening, monsters with no eyes and gold helmets attacking Manhattan. For some reason, the Asset feels a surge of what he identifies as rage when he sees the monsters tearing through New York. There appear to be a group of people fighting back - a flying metal suit, a blond man with an oversized hammer, an enormous green monster, a shadow with red hair that sets off pings in the Asset’s brain that taste like copper and smoke, a purple blur on top of buildings that makes the Asset’s right collarbone throb and—

The Asset bolts upright, eyes wide as he stares at the screen. Ignoring the screaming techs around him, he waits, body coiled tight as a spring for the camera to come back around. When it finally happens, there’s a word—a name—coming out of the Asset’s mouth before he can stop it. 

“Steve.”

It’s then that the STRIKE team bursts in. They beat him to the floor and shove him into the chair, but not before he takes a couple of them down with him. He doesn’t stop fighting until the first jolt of electricity shoots through him, and then everything goes white.

“Я готов отвечить.”


	3. Chapter 3

He doesn’t realize at first. He’s still broken and raw and full of jagged edges from Loki scooping out all the things that make up his self that he doesn’t realize the _snap_ he hears upon eye contact with Captain America is anything more than another broken piece snapping off. It’s not until after that he understands—after the Chitauri, after Nat closes the portal, after they send Loki off to Asgard with Thor—it’s not until after all that when Captain America— _Steve_ , he said to call him Steve—comes up to him and stammers through an invitation to coffee that Clint realizes.

The SGR that’s been on his chest all his life, dull grey and cold to the touch, stands for Steven Grant Rogers. His hand flies to his collarbone, pressing down hard on the SGR, and a shadow of a ghost of a smile crosses over Steve’s face. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you, CFB,” he says wryly. 

“Clinton Francis Barton,” Clint says hoarsely, because he’s just realized something else. “If you’re SGR,” he says, and he can see Steve’s face fall, “Then JBB-“

“Just me, I’m afraid,” Steve says. He smiles and shrugs but Clint sees through masks for a living, and Steve’s mask is covering up grief so loud and furious that Clint’s surprised it hasn’t eaten Steve alive. “Hope that’s not too much of a disappointment.”

Clint is silent for long enough that Steve’s smile starts to falter and Nat has to elbow him in the gut. “Never a disappointment,” he swears. “Not to me.”

Steve smiles softly. “So,” he says hesitantly, “About that coffee.”

* * *

Someone pokes at his toe. Clint grunts. They poke at him again and he rolls over to find Nat staring at him. _Why are you moping,_ she signs.

Clint lets out another wordless groan and smacks his hand around until he finds his aids, then sticks them in his ears and stares at the ceiling. “I’m not moping,” he says. He’s moping.

“Yes, you are,” Nat says flatly. “Why are you moping.”

Clint throws an arm over his eyes. “It’s dumb,” he mutters.

“Probably,” Nat agrees.

Somehow, that makes him feel a bit better. “I went out with Steve.” Nat doesn’t say anything. Clint knows what she’s doing, he knows she’s just trying to make him uncomfortable - but it’s working. “All he wanted to talk about was Barnes,” Clint whines. He also knows that he’s being a bit unfair. It may have been decades ago for the rest of the world, but for Steve, losing Barnes is still a raw and weeping wound.

“They are soulmates,” Nat points out. 

“So are we!” Clint cries. “I get that Steve lost him, and I’m sorry about that, I am. I lost him too. But we have each other now. And I’m not saying that I can replace Barnes, because I don’t think anyone ever can, but I’m at least _here_.” And he immediately feels guilty for saying that, because it’s not like it Barnes’ _fault_ that he fell off that damn train.

Nat hums. “Do you want me to kill him?”

Clint snorts, amusement shocked out of him. “He’s Captain America.” Nat just looks at him blankly. Clint shakes his head, grinning. “Of course that wouldn’t deter you. No, I don’t want you to kill him Nat, but thank you for offering.”

“You are my person,” Nat says seriously. “I don’t like it when my person is upset.” She’s clearly uncomfortable at even voicing that thought, so Clint takes pity on her and changes the subject. 

“Dog Cops?” He asks, lifting an arm so Nat can lay on his chest.

“You watch that show too much,” she scoffs, but she lays down anyway. Clint turns on the tv and allows Captain Whiskers and Sergeant Fluffybottom to sweep him away.

* * *

Clint and Steve go on a few more dates, and while they’re not _terrible_ dates, they’re not great either. It’s not that there’s no spark between them, because there absolutely is. It’s just... Clint feels like Steve is trying to push the whole soulmates thing - part of it is because his parents were soulmates and from the way Steve talks about them, they were the perfect couple. Another part of it is that Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are practically the love story of the century - and Steve lost him.

It’s not that they’re moving too fast, because they’ve barely done more than kiss each other on the cheek. It’s not even that all Steve seems to want to talk about is Bucky, because Clint actually wouldn’t mind talking about Bucky once in a while. But when every other word out of Steve’s mouth is ‘Bucky’, Clint thinks he’s entitled to a little angst.

Besides, Steve _says_ he wants this to work - wants _them_ to work - but he shuts down whenever Clint tries to ask him anything even remotely personal.

And Clint is perfectly willing to admit his own faults, alright - and there are many to admit. He doesn’t want to talk about work, not since SHIELD put him on forced leave, and he doesn’t want to talk about his family, because that’s depressing, and he doesn’t really have anything going on in his life. Steve, on the other hand, doesn’t want to talk about his time because it reminds him of Bucky, he doesn’t want to talk about the time he’s in now because it reminds him that he doesn’t have Bucky, and he doesn’t want to talk about SHIELD because ‘soulmates shouldn’t talk about work, Clint, we should talk about _us_ ’.

And Clint’s trying, he really is. But he was kind of thrown into this whole soulmate thing, which would have been fine if his soulmate wasn’t Captain fucking America. If there was _anyone_ who deserved a far better soulmate than Clint Barton, it was Steve goddamn Rogers. The man was just so _good_ , it practically oozed out of him. Clint actually saw him help a little old lady across the street the other day.

And Clint... Well, Clint’s broken. Tainted. Damaged goods. His body count is higher than it has any right to be, he’s a walking dumpster fire on his _good_ days, not to mention he is nearly single-handedly responsible for L- for New York almost being taken over by aliens.

Steve deserves better, and Clint doesn’t deserve him. He knows this, he accepts it, and he understands it - which is why he doesn’t understand why it’s so much of a shock when Steve sits across from him in a coffeeshop one day and says, “I don’t think this is working.”

Clint swallows the mouthful of coffee he had been savouring and lifts an eyebrow. “Okay.”

“That’s it?” Steve asks. “Just ‘okay’?”

Clint shrugs. “What do you want me to say, Steve? You’ve clearly already made up your mind, and I’m not going to force you to stay with me when you don’t want to.”

Steve crosses his arms and furrows his brow. “Some resistance would be nice.”

“Would it change anything?” Clint asks. Steve opens his mouth, then closes it slowly and shakes his head. “Didn’t think so,” Clint sighs. 

“Can we still be friends?” Steve asks timidly.

Clint scoffs, then sees the look on Steve’s face. He means it. “Yeah, okay, Steve,” Clint says, finishing off his coffee. “We can still be friends.”

* * *

The next time they see each other is four months later. It’s just past the end of summer, right when the weather’s starting to turn, and Clint’s just gotten back from a month-long mission in somewhere he’s not allowed to talk about. Honestly, he was under the impression that he’d never see Steve again, outside of the Avengers.

So it’s understandable that he’s surprised to find Steve sitting against the wall outside his apartment when he gets back. “What are you doing here?” It sounds harsh, and Clint feels like he should apologize, but he’s too damn tired and too damn sore to give a shit, frankly.

Steve’s head shoots up and he scrambles to his feet. “I heard you were back from a mission and I wanted to check on you.”

“Despite popular opinion,” Clint says, exhaustion filling his voice, “I am actually capable of taking care of myself.” He moves past Steve and jams his key into the door, pushing the door open and letting his bag fall off his shoulder and onto the floor with a thump.

“I know you can take care of yourself,” Steve says, following him inside. “I just wanted-”

“Steve, I’ve just gotten off a seventeen-hour flight after being awake for two days straight,” Clint interrupts. “I’m exhausted, I’m sore, I’m sweaty, and I really don’t have the energy to deal with anything right now, least of all the soulmate who rejected me. So I’m going to go climb into my bed and not come out for approximately eight years, and if you’re still here when I wake up, bring coffee or I’ll shoot you in your stupidly attractive face.” Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and goes into his bedroom, falling face first into the mattress. He barely musters up enough energy to take his aids out and put them on the nightstand before he’s unconscious, and the last thing he remembers before passing out is someone pulling off his shoes.

Clint wakes up thirty-six hours later. He’s starving, his bladder feels like it’s going to explode, and if he doesn’t get a shower soon, someone is going to call the police because he smells like a corpse. He rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom, does his business, then leaves and heads to the kitchen for coffee. He’s not awake enough to notice that the machine is already brewing, nor does he notice the various other signs of someone in his apartment until he’s two and a half mugs deep.

A hand lands on his shoulder and Clint nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around and slamming his knee into the other person’s chest. Or at least, trying to. Steve is holding Clint’s knee an inch away from his sternum, a bemused look on his face. He starts talking and Clint shakes his head. “I can’t hear you,” he says - too loudly, by the look on Steve’s face. Sighing, Clint shoves his mug into Steve’s free hand, pulls his leg away and goes back into his bedroom to fetch his aids. When he walks back into the kitchen after putting them in, Steve’s still standing in the same place Clint left him. “Coffee,” Clint says, tugging his mug out of Steve’s grip.

Steve lets it go, still confused. Clint drinks the rest of that cup and is halfway through his next before Steve snaps out of it. “So how was the mission?” he asks.

“Classified,” Clint replies shortly. He’s still feeling some sort of way about how Steve ended things, even if he knows it would’ve ended that way anyway.

“Oh,” Steve says, face falling. “But you’re okay?”

“Couple of bumps and bruises, nothing some rest and a good shower won’t fix,” Clint says. He’s not trying to be rude, exactly, but he still doesn’t know why Steve is here.

“I’m glad you’re not hurt,” Steve says. It appears to be sincere. 

“Yup,” Clint says, slurping at his coffee. 

They stand in awkward silence for a couple minutes, and then Steve abruptly asks, “Can I try something?”

“Sure, I- mmph!” Clint’s cut off by Steve kissing him, square on the mouth, with zero warning. Clint hasn’t brushed his teeth yet, he’s hunched over slightly because Steve’s a little shorter than he is, and he’s pretty sure that the burning sensation on his hand is his spilled coffee. Clint worms a hand in between them and _shoves_ , pushing Steve back a few inches. “What the fuck, Steve?”

“What?” Steve asks, eyes bright. 

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I thought... If we just _tried_ -”

Clint scowls. “You need to leave.”

Steve blinks, his face falling. “What?”

“You need to _leave_ ,” Clint says.

“I don’t understand,” Steve says, face falling.

Clint throws his hands up in the air. “What is there to understand, Steve? Four months ago, you rejected me. Told me that this, _us,_ ” he gestures between them, “wasn’t going to work. You left me, Steve, not the other way around."

“I left because I felt like you _wanted_ me to leave, Clint,” Steve says. “I don’t know what you want from me!”

“Not this,” Clint answers. He pushes Steve further away and says, “Just because I’m your soulmate doesn’t give you carte blanche to fuck with me, Steve. Soulbonds take _work_ , they’re not just some magic cure for what ails you. If you don’t want to stick around, that’s fine, but don’t bat me around like a fucking cat toy.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Clint scoffs. “You didn’t mean to drag me around, you didn’t _mean_ to play with my feelings - you never mean anything, Rogers, and I’m sick and fucking tired of it. Come talk to me when you make up your goddamn mind.” He crosses his arms and glares at Steve, not moving until Steve backs away, puts on his shoes, and walks out Clint’s front door, all without looking back.

“Good riddance,” Clint says, but he doesn’t mean it. He never means it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Me, frantically trying to finish chapter 5 last night so I can stay at least a chapter ahead: AAAAA

Two and a half years and four failed attempts at a relationship later, Clint is starting to think that he and Steve are doomed to circle each other forever. Never finding a resolution because neither of them is strong enough to resist the other and so constantly stuck in a loop of breaking up, swearing never again, meeting up after a few months, thinking ‘maybe?’, realizing ‘definitely not’, and rinse and repeat.

The longest they’ve been apart is six months, and that’s only because Steve called out Barnes’ name when Clint was sucking a bruise into his neck. That time, they didn’t last very long. 

Every time they break up, Clint comes away knowing a little more about Steve. The first time, it was how he took his coffee. The second time, it was the noises he makes when he comes. Clint comes away with another little piece of the Steve Rogers puzzle, and Steve comes away with... Well, it feels like he carves out another portion of Clint’s heart and takes it with him when he leaves, but that’s a bit dramatic. 

Honestly, Clint doesn’t know how many more times he can do this. Steve’s his _soulmate_ , for crying out loud, and if even he won’t stick around - what does that say about Clint? That the person made for him, the one meant for him above all others, won’t even stay much longer than a typical high-school relationship?

It doesn’t say anything good, that’s for sure. So Clint’s done. His heart - not to mention his self-esteem - can’t take much more of this, and he firmly resolves to tell Steve that the next time he sees him. “No more,” Clint says out loud as he’s walking to his door. “I’m done.” He nods to himself and pulls open his door. 

“Clint! Hi!” Steve says, fist in the air like he was about to knock. “I was just about to knock.”

“Steve,” Clint says, reeling slightly. “What are you doing here?”

“Do you have a minute to talk?” Steve asks, hand dropping to his side. “I’ve been doing some thinking and I need to talk to you about it.”

Clint steps aside and lets Steve in. “Sure,” he says. “I actually had something I wanted to talk to you about as well.” He offers Steve a drink but he says no, and then they’re both sitting awkwardly in Clint’s living room. 

“I think-” Steve says.

“We need to-” Clint says at the same time. He smiles sheepishly. “You go first.”

“I think we’ve been doing this wrong,” Steve says. 

“Doing what wrong?”

“Us.”

The words land like a punch to the gut - how is it that no matter how many times the two of them split up, it never hurts any less? “How do you mean,” Clint grits out.

“I was so focused on finding my other soulmate, you, that I sort of shoved everything else to the side,” Steve says. “I forgot that you had just found your soulmate too. We - _I_ tried to jump into this thing headfirst without even testing the waters first, and that’s not fair to either of us.”

“So what are you saying?” Clint asks. He’s getting some very mixed signals here.

“Instead of trying to be soulmates right away, why don’t we try being friends first?” Steve asks.

Clint blinks at him. “You want to be friends,” he says slowly.

“I figure it’s as good a place to start as any other,” Steve shrugs. He hesitates, then scoots a bit closer to Clint on the couch. “I don’t like what we’ve been doing,” he says quietly. “I can tell it’s hurting you, and it’s definitely hurting me, and that’s not fair. So I figure if we take things slow and work our way up to soulmates, things might go different this time.”

“And if they don’t?” Clint asks, his voice hoarse. 

Steve shrugs helplessly. “Then I’m all out of ideas.” He lays his hand palm up on the couch between them and looks at Clint hopefully. “I know it’s corny but the only way we can do this is together, Clint. And I want to try.”

Clint’s mind is racing. The silence drags on, tension rising with every moment that passes without a sound. Clint can’t deny that there’s a part of him that desperately wants this to work. That little kid, deep down inside, whose mom told him stories of soulmates, of how perfect finding your other half was, is _begging_ Clint to take Steve’s hand. 

The more cynical side of Clint is scoffing, saying that it will never work and Clint should just give up. He can’t help but think back to all the times they’ve tried before and all the times it hasn’t worked. All the fights and the days of silent treatment because one of them stepped on a landmine they didn’t know existed. The pain of heartbreak every time one of them ended it, that just got worse and worse the longer they had been together. All of that is telling Clint that he should say no, should make Steve leave, should protect himself from what will no doubt be another mistake.

He takes Steve’s hand.

* * *

“Fuck, that was _terrible_ ,” Clint laughs, spilling out of the movie theatre with a grin on his face and popcorn in his hand. 

“I thought it was pretty good,” Steve argues.

“Are you kidding me?” Clint says incredulously. “I called that so-called _twist_ ten minutes in! And the female lead was so one dimensional, she was basically just a walking set of tits. And guns don’t work like that!”

Steve laughs. “I love hearing you get all worked up about these movies,” he says softly. 

Clint’s mouth snaps shut and he blushes furiously. “Oh, uh... Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize!” Steve says. “I just said I love hearing it. I like seeing you animated and passionate.” Slowly, giving Clint a chance to pull away, he reaches out and takes his hand. “I’m glad you invited me out today.” He smiles shyly up at Clint.

Clint blushes harder and stammers, “I’m glad you said yes.” He squeezes Steve’s hand gently, letting their intertwined fingers swing in the space between them as they walk down the street.

It’s mostly quiet for a few minutes, the sounds of the city flowing around them, and then Steve blurts, “My therapist says that I need to lessen my attachment to the past and try and find things to enjoy here in the future.”

Clint blinks. “Okay,” he says. “What’s one thing you miss from your childhood? Something stupid.”

Steve smiles, mind no doubt going to all the not dumb things he misses. “The candy,” he says wistfully. “Especially Crunchies.”

“Crunchies?” Clint asks.

“My Ma would buy me one every week on pay day,” Steve says, a fond grin on his face. “We’d break it in half after supper and I’d always make sure she got the bigger piece because it was supposed to be good luck.” He fades into silence and Clint lets him be for a moment. Then, something catches his eye and he grins.

“Wait here a second, okay? I’ll be right back.” Impulsively, he darts in and kisses Steve on the cheek, then drops his hand and runs into a convenience store. He’s only gone a few minutes and when he gets back, Steve’s got his hand pressed to his cheek and a gobsmacked look on his face. “Here!” Clint says excitedly, handing a plain plastic bag to Steve.

“What is it?” Steve asks, eyeing it.

“Just open it!” Clint says impatiently, bouncing on his toes. Steve does as he’s told, pulling open the bag and reaching inside. He comes back with a candy bar in a yellow wrapper, but when he flips it over and reads what it’s called, his lower lip wobbles and he blinks rapidly. Clint’s face falls. “Is that not okay? I’m sorry, Steve, you were just saying how much you missed them and I saw it in the window back there and I thought -”

Steve yanks him into a hug, burying his face in Clint’s shoulder. “It’s perfect,” he says, voice muffled. “Thank you.”

Clint’s hands flutter aimlessly for a moment before wrapping around Steve. “Of course,” he says. They don’t separate for a while.

* * *

Clint’s in Bogota when he hears. He’s in a bar, flirting with the mark, when the whole bar gets impossibly loud. Clint’s eyes flick to the side, catching a glimpse of a scarily familiar building getting a helicarrier dropped on it. His whole body goes cold and a buzzing fills his head as he watches the Triskelion crumble into the Potomac river. “Turn that up,” he says hoarsely, and when the bartender looks at him oddly, he repeats himself in Spanish. 

The bartender turns it up and Clint can hear the newscaster speaking rapidly in Spanish. “It looks like the SHIELD building has been almost completely demolished due to one of its own helicarriers crashing into it. We’re getting reports that there has been an attempt to take over SHIELD by remnants of Hydra, the Nazi faction that Captain America was believed to have destroyed in the second World War.”

The buzzing in Clint’s ears gets louder. 

The newscaster continues talking. “There appears to be some sort of fight happening on one of the helicarriers - can we get closer?” The camera moves closer, a shaky image coming into view. It’s not very clear but Clint’s eyes are better than most, and he sees a flash of red, white, and blue and then something falls from the deck of the helicarrier into the river below. Clint’s heart jumps into his throat. 

A flash of silver grabs his attention and he catches a glimpse of what looks like a man with a metal arm standing over a prone body. A strangled noise escapes him and he can hear his mark asking if he’s okay in the background, but he just waves them off and keeps watching. Suddenly, the helicarrier beam gives way, falling into the Potomac and taking the prone body with it. Clint keeps watching, desperate for a clue, a hint, _anything_ that will tell him it wasn’t just Steve that fell. All he gets is a glimpse of the man with the silver arm diving off the helicarrier and then the camera feed cuts out. 

He stumbles to his feet and leaves the bar in a daze, mind racing. His phone buzzes in his back pocket and he fishes it out, staring down at the screen blankly. 

**Betsy:** _can you pick up some all dressed chips on your way home, we’re out_

 **Brad:** _yeah babe is that everything_

 **Betsy:** _need a new charger cord, my old one is dead and there’s no hope of saving it_

 **Betsy:** _oh and tell Stan that he still owes me twenty bucks from when I bought him that game he likes so much you know the one with the jackrabbits and the deer_

 **Brad:** _sure thing, love you, be home soon_

 **Betsy:** _key’s in the same place it always is_

Clint breathes out a sigh of relief, some of his panic abating now that he knows Steve and Nat are both alive and relatively unharmed. SHIELD, though, is a whole other story. Nat couldn’t give him all the details, especially not on a standard SHIELD issue phone - fuck, his safehouse, his papers, fucking everything he has is SHIELD issue. Shit.

“Okay,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Deep breath, Barton. You have one minute to panic, and then you need to move.” He takes forty-seven seconds, and then he shoves everything he’s feeling into a box and labels it DO NOT OPEN UNTIL NOT RIGHT NOW. Then he makes a plan.

He stops long enough at the safehouse to grab his bow and enough cash to keep him alive for a couple weeks, then he flips off the cameras that he knows are there and leaves, melting into the crowd on the street like he was never even there to begin with.

* * *

Four days later, he’s walking into the third-largest hospital in DC, baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and a scruffy beard covering the lower half of his face. He makes it half a floor before someone falls into step beside him. “Fancy seeing you here,” Nat murmurs, not looking at him. Clint’s shoulders slump in relief. He knew she was alive but something in him had been coiled tight and would have stayed that way if he hadn’t seen her.

“How bad is it?” He says, instead of saying any of the other things he wants to say. 

“You remember Budapest?” she asks.

Clint scowls. “Unfortunately.”

“Budapest was _Peru_ compared to this.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “Fuck.”

Nat hums in agreement and stops in front of what seems to be a random door. “He’s in there,” she says quietly.

Clint nods at her and puts his hand on the doorknob. Abruptly, he turns around and pulls Natasha into a hug, releasing her almost as fast as he grabbed her. “Next time, _call me_ ,” he says, voice breaking in the middle. He turns and enters the room before she can answer. 

Steve’s laying on a hospital bed, tubes and wires coming out of him. He looks beat to hell and back, but Clint can only imagine how much worse he looked four days ago. The fact that he’s still this bad means whoever the fuck the guy with the metal arm was did a serious number on him, and if Steve didn’t have the super serum, he’d be dead. Clint moves over to the empty chair on the left of the bed and slumps into it, burying his face in his hands. 

“What the _hell_ , Rogers,” he mutters, voice hoarse with unshed tears.

“Clint,” Steve says weakly. Clint’s head snaps up and he crowds in close. 

“Steve, baby, don’t speak,” he shushes. “You’re hurt pretty bad and -”

“It was Bucky,” Steve rasps, staring at Clint intently. “Bucky’s alive.” Clint stops talking and sits back, watching Steve’s eyes close now that he’s gotten that information across. 

“Well, shit.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Just let me help you, Steve,” Clint says, frustrated. He reaches towards Steve only to have his hands batted away.

“I can do it myself,” Steve insists stubbornly. Slowly and painstakingly, he reaches behind him to untie his hospital gown, face drawn and white with pain. Not a sound escapes him as he’s doing this, and if Clint wasn’t watching him, he’d never even know Steve was in pain. Eventually, Steve gets the gown untied and it falls to his waist.

“Jesus,” Clint breathes, reaching out. His fingers stop a hair's breadth away from Steve’s skin, splotchy with bruises and discolouration. “Steve -”

“I’m fine,” Steve says shortly.

Clint rolls his eyes. “No, you’re not, you self-sacrificing moron. He really did a number on you, and even your super soldier healing self needs a minute to recover from that.”

“I don’t need help,” Steve mutters, stubborn til the end.

“You’re a shitty injured person,” Clint tells him. Steve looks up at him, shock flashing across his face, then snorts. 

“I really am,” he admits. “It used to be all Bucky could do to keep me in bed when I was sick or injured.”

“I don’t envy him,” Clint says. He moves beside Steve, and places a gentle hand over Steve’s white knuckled grip on the bed frame. “Babe, you’re bending the metal. Let me help you so we can get out of here.” He waits for Steve to nod, albeit grudgingly, and then within twenty minutes later, they’re in a cab headed back to Steve’s apartment. 

Steve’s mostly quiet, with only the occasional grunt when they hit a pothole, and by the time they reach his apartment, he’s nearly falling asleep in Clint’s arms. It’s all Clint can do to get him up the stairs, through his front door and into his bedroom without hitting some already injured body part off a doorframe or piece of furniture.

“Bucky,” Steve says abruptly as they’re standing in front of his bed. “Clint, we have to help him. We have to help him remember who he is.”

“We will,” Clint says soothingly, crouching down and untying Steve’s shoes. “But you need to rest first. You’re no good to anyone, least of all Bucky, if you’re injured and sleep deprived.”

“We have to help him _now!_ ” Steve insists.

Clint sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Steve, the guy is just getting free from what was likely 70 years of torture and brainwashing and who knows what else, don’t you think he deserves a little space? Some time to figure some stuff out?”

Steve looks at him mournfully. “Clint, this is _Bucky_ we’re talking about.”

Something in Clint just snaps. He’s spent the last few days worried sick about Steve, about whether or not he was even going to live, his entire livelihood is a complete trash fire, and also possibly Nazis, and he just can’t deal with this on top of everything else. “It’s always Bucky with you, Steve, no wonder I felt like I never had a fucking chance.” 

Steve’s staring at him, mouth open and eyes wide, and it’s like all the air has been sucked out of the room. Neither of them say anything for a long while, tension rising until it’s so thick you could cut it with a spork, and then Clint can’t take it anymore. He turns on his heel and walks out, leaving Steve standing there, clutching at his bed frame with a lost expression on his face.

* * *

Goddammit, Clint feels like an asshole. It’s been about twenty minutes since he left Steve’s place, and he got maybe two blocks away before he realized that left alone, Steve’s going to do something absolutely fucking moronic like go after Barnes. 

Fuck, Barnes. Bucky Barnes is alive. Honestly, Clint’s sort of been shoving that information away, doing his best to focus on Steve and not the fact that his second soulmate has apparently been alive and brainwashed and working for Hydra for the last seventy years.

“This is a mess,” Clint sighs, abruptly turning on his heel and heading back to Steve’s apartment. “This is going to _suck_.” He makes it back to Steve’s apartment relatively quickly and lets himself in, not trusting Steve to open the door for him. “Steve? You here?” He shuts the door behind him. “I’m sorry for what I said, I wasn’t being fair.”

He heads down the hall to Steve’s bedroom, pushing open the door to find Steve in a towel and just out of the shower, staring at his sweatpants forlornly. Before Clint can say anything, Steve says, “You were right. I can’t even put my fucking pants on by myself, how am I going to help Bucky?”

Clint sighs, shakes his head, and goes to help Steve get dressed. “No, I wasn’t fair to you,” he says, lifting Steve’s left leg. “I didn’t consider how this is affecting you - you just got your soulmate back, Steve, that’s a lot to handle, even for a super-soldier.”

“But you were right,” Steve insists as Clint pulls his sweatpants up. “I’m no use to Bucky if I’m injured and tired. You know I get impatient, especially when it comes to the ones I love. I need to rest and heal, and then we’ll find Bucky. Together.” Steve goes quiet all of a sudden, then says, hesitantly, “That is, if you even _want_ to find Bucky.”

“Steve, of course I want to find him,” Clint says seriously, standing and helping Steve into bed. “I want to find him and help him, but...” he trails off, not wanting to upset Steve.

“But what?”

Clint sighs. “But I need you to consider the possibility that there might not be anything left of Bucky Barnes in the Winter Soldier. The things they must have had to do to him to get him to obey them, it might have shattered any sense of identity he had.”

“Bucky’s strong,” Steve says stubbornly as they climb into bed. “He’ll be okay.” Clint just nods, knowing that he won’t be able to get Steve to understand until the Winter Soldier is standing right in front of them.

And fuck does Clint hope that there’s some sliver of Bucky Barnes left. He really does, if only for Steve’s sake. The man shouldn’t have to lose a soulmate twice. And if some part of Clint way deep down has come back to life at the thought of a second soulmate, Clint ignores it. No point hoping until he knows for sure whether or not Bucky Barnes survived.

* * *

Clint’s woken up the next morning when the mattress shifts, and a muffled vibration tells him that Steve’s fallen out of bed. “Steven Grant Rogers, you get your ass back in this bed or so help me,” Clint says without opening his eyes. He can’t hear Steve’s response, but the mattress shifts again and a few seconds later, a weight flops onto Clint’s chest.

He grunts. “Go back to sleep, ‘s too early,” he mutters. Steve’s chest vibrates on top of him as the other man says something. “No talk, only sleep.” Clint draws his hand up Steve’s spine, suppressing a smirk as he makes his soulmate shiver, and slides that hand over Steve’s mouth. “Sleep.” Steve settles on Clint’s chest, and soon enough, Clint drifts back to sleep, Steve a comforting weight on top of him.

The next time he wakes up, Steve’s weight is gone and the apartment smells like coffee. Clint blearily pats around for his aids, putting them in as he climbs out of bed. Somehow his shirt came off in the middle of the night. And his pants. He’s left in his underwear, not that he can be concerned about that when there’s coffee to be had. 

He trudges into the kitchen, yawning, beelining straight for the coffeepot. Before he gets there, however, he’s intercepted by an oversized golden retriever, grinning at him. “Good morning,” Steve says cheerily.

Clint blinks at him. 

“Right, coffee,” Steve says, smiling, “How could I forget?” He hands Clint an oversized mug of coffee, which Clint immediately chugs, holding it back out to Steve after about five seconds. Steve laughs but pours him another mug, and Clint makes it halfway through this one before his brain wakes up enough for speech. 

“G’morning,” he mumbles. He takes another sip of his coffee.

“I forgot how adorable you are in the mornings,” Steve says fondly.

“‘M not ‘dorable,” Clint argues halfheartedly. “‘M super secret agent, competent ‘n’ stuff.”

“Alright, Clint,” Steve says agreeably. He lets Clint finish the rest of his mug in silence, and the one after that, and once Clint’s sufficiently woken up, he switches from doting - boyfriend? Is that what they are now? Clint has not had enough coffee for this - doting whatever to Captain America, face losing its soft edges. 

“I couldn’t track Bucky after the helicarrier,” he says, spreading out a bunch of paper files on the kitchen counter. “He was always good at staying hidden, but whatever Hydra did to him practically made him invisible.”

“He’s not going to be easy to find,” Clint says. “And if he doesn’t _want_ to be found, then he won’t be.”

“But we’re still going to try,” Steve says fiercely.

“Of course we are, Steve,” Clint says. “But this is not going to be over in a week. It likely won’t be over in a month.”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life looking for him,” Steve says stubbornly. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“I know,” Clint sighs. He pulls one of the files towards him. “Let’s get started then.”

* * *

He wanders through a museum, full of old things and new people and _there’s so many people_ \- a voice catches his attention.

_“A symbol to the nation. A hero to the world.”_

There is a lot of red, white and blue here, and even more people. But this is important. Why is it important? How does he know it’s important?

_“The story of Captain America is one of honour, bravery, and sacrifice.”_

His legs carry him forward, stopping him from bumping into an elderly lady in front of him **[threat level: zero]**.

_“Denied enlistment due to poor health-”_

Poor health? Stevie’s not sick, not anymore, what is this voice talking about, Stevie’s fine-

_“- Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique to the annals of American warfare.”_

Stupid Stevie, should’ve stayed home where you were _safe_. ( _What am I gonna do, Buck, collect tin in my little red wagon?_ )

 _“One that would transform him into the world’s first super-soldier._ ”

Super-soldier. Dumb name. Just because he’s super doesn’t mean he’s not still human. Needs rest, needs care, needs - _Buck, I’m fine, it’ll heal up in a day or so! Stop fussing._ Needs. Buck. Who’s Buck?

_“Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes.”_

There are clothes in front of him, clothes that he recognizes. They are not standard issue, there is not enough protection around the vital organs, he could get _hurt_ -

“ _Their mission - taking down Hydra, the Nazi rogue science division.”_

Hydra. Bad. No. He doesn’t want to go back, please don’t make him go back. His legs stumble away, bringing him out of the museum just as the voice starts to talk about _Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield - don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone - how could I, you’re taking all the stupid with you -_ The voices in his head won’t _stop_. He clutches at his head, still moving, somehow knowing where to go even though he doesn’t know where to go. He’s in a building, walking up stairs, and standing in front of a door. Should he knock?

 _We do not just barge into someone’s home without knocking,_ someone says. He knocks. 

Nothing happens. And then something does. The door opens in front of him and there’s someone standing there. It’s not Steve, not exactly, but this guy’s got blond hair and blue eyes, just like Stevie does - did - does and it’s a lot and the brain is shutting down and the body is shutting down and - 

Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head and he collapses at Clint’s feet, unconscious.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is!! I am so sorry for the long wait, friends, but it's here now! I hope you enjoy this wrap-up! Thanks again to Vex for bidding on me, thanks to the Hawktion mods for running this event again - I had so much fun and can't wait to do it again next year!

“They’re not letting me see him,” is the first thing Steve says to Clint upon Clint’s arrival at the hospital. “Clint, they’re-“

“Not letting you see him, Steve, I heard you the first time,” Clint sighs. 

“They say they’re under orders not to let me in, but they won’t tell me who gave those orders,” Steve says, pouting.

“That’s because it was me.” Clint winces as Steve’s eyes widen.

“But... why?”

Clint takes Steve’s hand and moves them over to a somewhat secluded corner. “It’s not safe or healthy for you to see him right now.”

“But he’s Bucky!” Steve insists. “He would never hurt me!”

“You’re right,” Clint agrees. He can see the wind go out of Steve’s sails at that, the fight that Steve was building up to vanishing in a poof of smoke. “Bucky would never hurt you. But that man in there? Steve, that’s not Bucky.” He holds up a hand to stop Steve from interrupting. “That man is what’s left of Bucky after seventy years of torture, after seventy years of the most awful things that can happen to a person continuously happening to him.”

“But-” Steve tries weakly.

“He needs _space_ , Steve,” Clint says firmly. “Space to heal, space to find out who the person behind the Winter Soldier is. And he can’t get that space if there’s a Steve hovering over his shoulder, calling him a name he doesn’t know that comes with a whole truckload of baggage.” He pulls Steve into his arms and holds him tight. “I know this sucks,” he murmurs. “I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling right now, but you need to _trust me_ , Steve.”

Steve sniffles into his shoulder. “I do trust you,” he says wetly. “It’s just... I didn’t think I’d get him back.” 

Clint leans back and lifts Steve’s chin with a finger until they’re eye-to-eye. “But you _did_ ,” he says. “You did get him back, and now we have to give him the time and space he needs to get _himself_ back.”

Steve visibly steels himself, then nods. “What can we do for him?”

Clint grins viciously. “We can get him the best damn legal defence available, and have them rip whoever dares say that he’s responsible for everything the Winter Soldier did to shreds.” Steve gives him a half-hearted grin, then buries his face in Clint’s chest again. 

The grin fades from Clint’s face as he strokes Steve’s hair. He looks towards the set of doors that, among several sets of guards, are the only thing keeping him from his other soulmate, and he makes a promise. 

_We will get you out of there, and you will be free._

* * *

Three months later, Clint gets a phone call. “He wants to _what_?” He says incredulously.

“He wants to meet you,” Dr. Nadeen says patiently. “He’s been making excellent strides and has shown some interest in meeting someone outside the group of professionals treating him.”

“And he chose me,” Clint says flatly.

“He has expressed an explicit desire not to meet Captain Rogers yet, and Agent Romanoff has not been reachable,” the doctor says. “Agent Barton, you are the first choice this man has made for himself in decades.”

“Alright, doc, there’s no need to guilt me into it,” Clint grumbles. “When do you want me?”

“He’d like to see you as soon as possible,” he says. “How’s tomorrow?”

After Clint hangs up, he turns to face Steve slowly. By the look on his face, he heard everything. “You heard,” he says simply.

“Super hearing,” Steve says. “He doesn’t want to see me?”

“Doesn’t want to see you _yet_ ,” Clint emphasizes. “Think about it. You were his mission, the very last thing Hydra ordered the Winter Soldier to do. He’s probably just scared of what might happen.”

“I can take whatever he can dish out,” Steve says grumpily.

“It’s not about that, Steve,” Clint sighs. “How do you think he’d feel if he saw you and ended up beating the shit out of you, and you wouldn’t even fight back? You know how screwed up I was after New York, imagine that times seventy years instead of three days.”

Steve blinks. “I... I didn’t even think of that.”

Clint shrugs. “I might have a little insight here. Are you okay with me going to see him?”

“It’s not about me,” Steve says. “He asked for you, you’re going. Could you just...” he bites his lip. “Could you just tell him I miss him and I love him?”

“Of course, baby,” Clint says softly. “Of course I’ll tell him.”

* * *

Clint’s nervous. He’s meeting his second soulmate for the first time, not to mention that said soulmate is Bucky fucking Barnes. Who may or may not have been the match that lit the fire that was Clint’s realization that he was into guys. “Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. He should’ve shaved.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Dr. Nadeen says. “He’s asked that we not record this meeting, and with the exception of vital signs, we’ve agreed. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Yeah, sure, nothing to be worried about except that this man is his soulmate. No need to worry at all. “Thanks, Doc,” Clint says cheerfully. “I think I got it from here.” He waits until the doctor leaves, takes a deep breath and knocks on the door. In the three seconds before it swings open, Clint considers three courses of action.

First, he thinks about running away, but immediately discards that as an option because he was asked to be here, and he’s not going to throw that back in his host’s face.

Second, he thinks about flirting his way through this meeting. It takes him a split second longer to discard that, and that’s mostly because he doesn’t want his soulmate’s first impression of him to be Clint Barton, flirt extraordinaire.

Third, he just thinks about screaming. 

And then the door swings open. Blue-grey eyes stare out at him. Neither of them say anything for a few moments, and then, “Holy shit.”

Clint can’t help it - he snorts. “Pretty much,” he agrees. “I’m Clint, but you knew that already.”

“I’m...” he pauses, clearly unsure as to what to call himself. “James. Call me James.”

“James it is, then,” Clint agrees. James stands back and waves him inside. As he’s taking off his jacket, Clint looks around, curious. “For a safehouse, this place is pretty nice.”

James shrugs. “Can I get you anything? Water, coffee?”

Clint grins. “You read my mind. Coffee would be epic.”

James smiles hesitantly at him. “Feel free to look around,” he says over his shoulder as he goes into the kitchen. Clint takes him at his word and, for lack of a better term, snoops. It is a nice place, if a bit sparse in material objects - but that makes sense, considering where James has been. Nothing really holds his attention, so he turns it to the one thing his brain keeps latching onto. James.

The man is not what he expected. He’s... softer than Clint would have imagined, wearing sweatpants and a too-large sweater. It tugs at Clint’s heartstrings a little, seeing him like this. He’s aching with the desire to just go and bury his face in James’ neck, but he just met the guy - even if they are soulmates, that’s a bit much.

“Here you go,” James says, handing him a mug of coffee. Clint takes the mug and takes a sip, making a surprised noise.

“This is delicious,” he says. “What’d you do to it?”

“Nothing? I-” James’ eyes widen in confusion. “I just... made it. I think maybe there’s cinnamon?”

Clint clutches the mug possessively to his chest. “Well, whatever you did, consider me spoiled for any other coffee ever.”

James laughs softly, and Clint has to actively stop himself from reaching out and pulling him into a hug. “Glad it meets your no doubt very high standards,” he teases.

“Hey, coffee is a serious business!” Clint protests. “Gotta give it the respect it’s due.” James laughs again. From there, they move to other topics of conversation. Light, easy topics - neither of them mention Steve. After a couple hours, Clint looks at his phone, blinking in shock. “Oh shit,” he says. “I gotta go. Promised Steve’ I’d-” he stops, some sort of strangled noise leaving his throat as he chokes off the rest of that sentence.

James goes quiet. “Is he angry that I didn’t want to see him?”

“James, I don’t think he has the capacity to be angry at you,” Clint says gently. 

“He should be,” James says stubbornly. “What I did...”

“I’m not going to tell you that you aren’t responsible for what you did,” Clint says. James looks at him in surprise. “You may not have been responsible, but you still did it. I...” he hesitates, then pushes forward. “I’ve been where you are. Not as long, and not as bad, but I was made to do things I had no control over. I got people I cared about killed, and even though everyone was telling me it wasn’t my fault, I still felt guilty.”

“You... what happened?” James asks.

Clint shakes his head. “I don’t like talking about it. Ask your doctor to tell you, he’s the same one I saw after- after it happened. I’ll tell him to tell you anything you want to know.”

“You’re different than I expected,” James says thoughtfully.

“I get that a lot,” Clint answers. “I really do have to go, but it was nice to meet you, James. Maybe we can do this again sometime?”

“I’d like that,” James says, smiling softly. “I’d like that a lot.”

* * *

“What’d he say? Is he okay? Do you like him? Does he like you? Did Bucky ask about me?” As soon as Clint walks through the door, Steve is practically on top of him, throwing question after question about James at him. 

Clint holds up a hand, stopping the barrage of questions. “First of all, he told me to call him James.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees.

“I’m not telling you what he said, that’s between us. He seems as okay as he can be, considering. I like him just fine, I don’t know how he feels about me, and he asked if you were angry at him.”

“You told him I’m not mad at him, right?” Steve asks worriedly.

“Steve, I told him the truth, which is that you don’t have the _capacity_ to be mad at him,” Clint explains. “And I don’t think I do either, not after the coffee he made me. Steve, it was like sex in my mouth.”

Steve blinks at him. “How are you so calm about this? He’s our missing piece, Clint!”

“Firstly, I resent the implication that I am missing anything,” Clint says firmly. “I don’t need a soulmate to be complete, neither do you and neither does he. Secondly, James is so much more than our third, Steve, you should know that.”

“I know,” Steve grumbles. “I’m just...” he sighs. “I miss him.”

“I know, darlin’,” Clint soothes. “We need to give him time. He’ll come to us when he’s ready.” He pulls Steve into his arms and kisses the top of his head. “Just need to have patience.”

“You know that’s not one of my strong suits,” Steve complains. “But I’ll try. For him, I’ll try.”

* * *

Over the next couple months, Clint and James see each other at least once a week. They keep their conversations light - on Clint’s second visit, James seems to be vibrating with energy, eventually asking if he can hug Clint. Clint says yes (of course he does, he’s not an idiot) and they hug, and Clint has to force himself to let go and step away after a couple minutes. After that, they stick to lighter topics.

Clint can see it weighing on Steve, every time he comes home and tells him that James still doesn’t want to see him. Steve grudgingly accepts it each time, but the set of his jaw and the slump of his shoulders shows Clint how he’s really feeling. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries once, but Steve brushes him off.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, and neither does James,” he says. “This is just my desire to see him clashing with my desire to follow his wishes. If he doesn’t want to see me, I’ll accept that.” He offers a broken little smile. “No matter how much it hurts.” He walks away, disappearing into his painting studio. 

Clint watches him go, heart aching for him. For both of his soulmates, honestly. It’s so clear that James _wants_ to see Steve, if the way he hangs on to Clint’s words whenever he talks about him is any indication, but it’s just as clear that James is scared. Scared of what might happen, scared of Steve’s reaction, Clint doesn’t know, but all he wants to do is make it better for both of them. 

But it’s not his decision to make. All he can do is be there for both of them, so that’s what he’ll do.

* * *

“I want to see him,” is the first thing James says when Clint walks through his door on his next visit. “Steve. I want to see him.”

Clint blinks. “Now?” James nods. “Alright. He dropped me off, so hopefully he hasn’t left yet.” He pulls out his phone and texts Steve. The message is read almost immediately and when Steve responds with an ‘ _is he sure_ ’, Clint rolls his eyes. ‘ _just get up here you dummy_ ’ he sends, and forty-two seconds later, there’s a knocking at the door.

James stares at it, eyes wide, then looks at Clint in panic. “What do I do?” he hisses. 

Clint bites back a grin. “Maybe try opening the door?” he offers.

James glares at him but does as he says. He opens the door to a practically vibrating Steve, and Clint can _feel_ the tension between them. 

They stare at each other for a long few minutes, both of them drinking the other in like they’re the last drink of water in the desert. “Hi, Steve,” James finally says softly.

“Hi, James,” Steve responds. He’s still standing outside, shaking with the effort it’s taking him not to reach out to James. “I’ve missed you.”

At that, some tension slides from James’ shoulders. “I’ve missed you too, punk,” he says. A sob tears its way out of Steve’s throat and he falls forward. James catches him and lowers them both to the ground, murmuring into his ear too quietly for Clint to hear. 

Clint slips away into the kitchen, giving the two long-separated soulmates a moment to themselves. It’s nearly ten minutes before they come into the kitchen, saving the coffee maker from Clint’s wandering fingers. They’ve both been crying, but they’re holding hands, so things are probably okay? “I can go,” he says awkwardly. “Give you two some time alone.”

“I don’t want you to leave,” James says, raw honesty in his voice. “You’re my soulmate, why would I want you to leave?”

At his words, it’s like something that’s been missing slots into place inside Clint, and he has to bite his tongue _hard_ to fight off the tears. “I didn’t think you knew,” he manages to get out past the lump in his throat.

“How could I not?” James says, smiling. He reaches for Clint with his free hand. “I’ve been waiting to meet you for a very long time, CFB.”

Clint tentatively takes his hand, offering his other one to Steve. “I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he admits, looking at his soulmates. “Thought it was a pipe dream, thought maybe I’d be lucky enough to find one of you.”

“We found each other,” Steve says firmly. “And we’re not going anywhere.”

“You’re gonna get annoyed of us pretty fast,” James says, smirking.

“Not possible,” Clint disagrees fiercely. He squeezes their hands. “You’ve given me coffee, that’s an unbreakable bond, as far as I’m concerned.” The two of them grin at him and he grins back, finally, _finally_ feeling like he fits. Like he belongs somewhere. Like he belongs with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the lovely clintscoffeepot for beta'ing this for me, love you babe :* <3

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to clintscoffeepot for beta reading this for me - <333
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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